


Retrospective

by Devils_Official



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, canon compliant through s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 03:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils_Official/pseuds/Devils_Official
Summary: Lotor’s POV of the events of the latter half of S4.





	Retrospective

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this just after Season 4 dropped, totally forgot about it, and found it in my notes.  
> Or, I was hopelessly optimistic, but then the writers disappointed me.

He is always in control of himself. 

He must be.

Not because he is too strong -he is small and frail for a Galra -and not because he is a prince. 

He is in control of himself, first and foremost, because only then can he be in control of everything around him.

He has planned this for years. It is luck and and skill and timing that brought him this close to the rift in the first place.  


If one moving part was out of place, it would all fall down around him.

He cannot bring himself to laugh, even bitterly, when it finally does. 

He has been living on 10,000 years worth of borrowed time. He knows how his father’s commanders spoke of him when they thought no one was listening. They thought he should have been thrown out the airlock when he was born, when he did not have claws or talons or bulk like they did.

He is only glad his father did not hear them. He would rather not know what his father would have said. Done. 

The tracker was a decoy. 

He is an idiot. 

He wants to slam his hand against something that will shatter, but he cannot. There is no time, and even his generals don’t get to see that side of him.

When he strikes, he strikes fast. 

He is sorry. 

Sorry for trusting anyone enough to let them get close. Has he not learned? 

He feels the confusion, the fear from his generals. If they are afraid of him, that is fine. They should be. One of their number has already betrayed him.

Narti is an example. 

He feels Kova’s eyes on him even as he strides away.

It is not too late. Yet. 

He learned to fight out of necessity. He was small and weak and frail. Weak things do not survive the Galra. 

So he fights.

And he fails.

And he gets stronger, harder. Ruthless. Clever and sly. 

What is diplomacy but subterfuge? And the Galra do not know how to spot it. They see him as he wants them to.

They will not make that mistake again. 

Not after Throk.

He has Galra strength and Altean cunning. His father will regret sending him away where he cannot keep an eye on him. 

If his father survives.

His remaining generals doubt him. They will not, after crossing through the rift. Then, he will have all the quintessence he needs. No one will be able to stand against him. 

He does not know if Narti willingly helped Haggar or not, and it does not matter. Narti has paid for whatever sins she may have committed, and Haggar will soon. 

It is important he get through the rift first. How long has Haggar been spying on him through Narti? He cannot say. What, then, has been compromised?

The line from the other ship goes dead, but he ignores it. He knows Acxa, at least, will never betray him.

The portal failed.

And now there is no time. Still, he must think. There is no more quintessence, so another attempt will be impossible. _For how long?_ How long can he continue running? His facilities were destroyed.

They will have to be rebuilt. 

He knows his generals are discussing something. They heard the orders as well as he did. They are all on the same ship with him now. They are smart, they are survivors, and together -

He turns at Acxa’s approach. She gives good advice, and he could use it now.

“For Narti,” she says, pointing her gun squarely at his chest.

He has time to be surprised, but that’s all.

When he comes to, his is back in his cockpit. His arms are bound behind his back. 

It was the only way for them. Four half-Galra cannot defeat an empire. Not alone, not without the quintessence.

They will turn him over, in hopes of clemency.

They won’t get it.

He has broken himself out of worse situations than this. He is not drugged this time, and there is only one person he must eliminate first. 

He hears her speaking, but he cannot focus on the words, not when he brings his arms up from behind himself, and twists and pushes and pulls until _-pop crunch snap -_ his armsare in front of him. He shrugs just so, to pop his joints back into place, gritting his teeth. He has faced worse than this.

That is not a comforting thought. 

He ejects Zethrid into space before he can think on it further. 

She was wearing her helmet. She’ll be alright. 

It is better this way. 

The empire cannot use his generals to torture him. 

If they are smart, they will run. 

He dozes, for a time, though he is not sure how long. 

He wakes to the sounds of combat, only to realize that he is the one being fired upon.

He is alone, only his wits to get him out in one piece.

He spots an unstable star on his scanner. It’s an insane plan.

He spots his father’s battle cruiser on the scanner as well.

Better an insane plan than none at all.

He survives the same way he always has: luck and skill and timing. 

He lets himself rest again, listening to the radio chatter. 

He is distantly aware of some great battle -Voltron again, naturally -and knows that is why Haggar has not come after her himself. Instead she sicced his obsessive father on him. 

Haggar is a crafty witch, he’ll give her that. 

And then they mention the sector that Naxzella is in, and he in fully awake. 

He knows what’s there. 

Where others see destruction, he sees opportunity. 

He enters the coordinates. 

Voltron is there. Rebel ships, as well, a motley crew.

It is not enough.

They have nothing that will penetrate the shields of Haggar’s cruiser. 

Nothing, except...

He thinks he might be the only to see it. He is not engaged in the battle, after all. Not yet. He has not decided if he will be.

There is one small fighter flying out of formation. It has not engaged with the Rebels, nor Voltron.

Instead...

It flies directly at the shield.

The impact will be enough to destroy the shield, at least temporarily. It will be enough.

Victory or Death is the Galra way. But if victory can be gained through death...

He has a suspicion about the identity of the suicidal pilot.

He fires. The weapons on his ship are powerful, more than strong enough to bring the shields down. That is by design. 

He tunes into the radio chatter. The bomb that Naxzella was has been defused. For now. As long as Haggar is weakened and her ship out of commission.

It is a great victory. 

There is only one place left for him to turn.

He will be a valuable ally. 10,000 years of experience. Knowledge of the inner workings of the empire. Knowledge, or at least, educated guesses about what Haggar intends. 

All this, in exchange for his life. 

His life is forfeit anyway. The empire is vast, but not so vast that he can run forever. There are only so many half-Altean children out there. 

And now... The fall of the empire is imminent. 

What has he got to lose?

“Voltron,” he begins, hears all the chatter fall silent. “I think it’s time we had a discussion.”

He is escorted from the hangar of the castle-ship to the control room by an armed escort. He has engaged Voltron before, and they had learned not to underestimate him, so he is not surprised or offended. 

There is no point in taking offense.

He had not expected his escort to be two masked and hooded Galra. He has known that there are spies within the ranks of the empire, but going as far as this? 

He will learn more. 

Where Galra craft tend to be dark and closed off, unwelcoming, the castle-ship is bright and open. 

It makes him uncomfortable. He knows where to hide on a Galra ship. This place is a maze, and if he needs to make a run for it, he will be trapped and cornered.

He is not the first to arrive, nor the last.

The paladins of Voltron are the last. They are, more or less, conveniently color-coded, though he is certain there is no pink lion.

Still, that paladin is Altean. She knows what it means as well as he does.

He has not kept up with Voltron’s public appearances, though now he thinks he should have, in order to have a inkling where to start.

And then he recognizes the paladin of the Black Lion -once his father’s Lion -and he inclines his head graciously. The Champion is well-respected in the Empire, even if he did turn out to be their greatest enemy. 

“Champion,” he says, noting the hardening of the paladin’s jaw. Struck a nerve, did he?

“You must be Prince Lotor.”

“Guilty as charged.”

The Voltron he saw today was not the Voltron he’d fought on Thayserix. They had been more kitten than Lion then. This is not the paladin who piloted the Black Lion then.

The Altean paladin stands at the Champion’s side, her hands clasped in front of her, like she wants to cross them. She does not trust him. 

None of them do.

The paladin in blue armor does have his arms crossed, and he is brave enough to step forward. “What do you want?”

“An alliance. I was under the impression that anyone could join the Coalition.”

He is surrounded. Eleven-to-one odds are not ideal. But he will fight, if he must. He will not go down without a fight. Not after everything. 

“And I have information.”

“You will help us defeat the Empire?” the Altean asks. She is not the only Altean, he notices. The other is an older man, apparently unarmed. A possible hostage if need be. “You will fight against your father and your mother?”

He cannot help the growl in his voice. “My mother is _dead_.” 

The paladins exchange a series of long looks. He does not know them well enough to read them. _He_ _will_. 

There are two Galra in the room, and one wearing the same uniform as them, but far too short to be a Galra. A full-blooded Galra, anyway. 

“Your mother is Haggar,” he says now. He reaches back and pulls his hood away, deactivates the mask hiding his face.

He looks as human as most of the other paladins. 

Lotor focuses on this instead of the words coming from his mouth, because they are crazy, insane _lies_ , and they cannot expect him to believe them. 

“Whatever ploy this is, I do not appreciate it.” He cannot think of what advantage they might gain from it, but his mind is reeling still, and... It cannot be true.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” this strange creature says. He is so earnest, no subterfuge around him at all. He is blunt, no hidden motives. Lotor appreciates that, at least. “You saved my life.”

It comes together, then. This is the pilot who meant to fly directly at the shields of Haggar’s cruiser. 

He does not look like a man who had been on the verge of taking his like only vargas ago. 

Lotor inclines his head. He wants to turn away, but there is nowhere to turn without someone looking at him. “How is it possible?” He asks, low enough he doesn’t think anyone would hear him. 

If Haggar is his mother... _Why_? 

She had tried to kill him. 

It doesn’t matter. He shakes his head. “I have been dispossessed,” he says, plastering that characteristic fake smirk on his face. It is his armor. It has not failed him yet. 

He knows that they will turn on him sooner or later, but he will be prepared this time. 

“Whatever remains of the Empire when you are done,” he says, “will be mine. Without dispute.”

One of the two masked Galra makes a sound, low in his throat. A growl. He unmasks himself. “We have not fought the Empire for ten thousand years, only to have you rebuild it.”

“Whatever crimes you have committed will be pardoned,” Lotor says. If these...insurgents continue to be a problem, he won’t execute them publicly. He knows better than to make a martyr of anyone. 

The growl returns, louder. “You have no honor. You are just as corrupt as your father and his empire.” He turns to the Altean. “We should just kill him now.”

And hasn’t Lotor heard that his whole life? 

The Altean looked like she was considering it. 

Lotor bent his knees in preparation. His shoulders were still sore -he really should be in a healing pod -but he would fight if he had to. He would not stand idly while they decided his fate.

“I can defeat Haggar,” he said. “She is your biggest threat. Without her, Zarkon will be nearly powerless. He relies on her and her druids for the quintessence they provide him.” It was how he had lived so long. “I know where her facilities are, how she manufactures so much purified quintessence.”

“We know where all the Galra bases are,” the Green Paladin said, her arms crossed. She looked like she was almost certainly related to one of the rebels. 

“You did not know Naxzella was a bomb,” he said simply. “There are others.” 

That caused quite a few pale faces. Without him, they could all be dead. 

“We will discuss it,” the Altean said. “In the meantime, Coran will show you to a healing pod.” 

Did he look that bad? He felt exhausted, but... “Thank you,” he said.

He was only in the healing pod for... vargas, he thought. There was no one there to greet him, but at least he felt better. The soreness of his shoulders was gone.

He was hungry, but he was almost certain he would throw whatever he ate right back up. 

He was frustrated, the kind of frustration that needed to be worked out physically. 

He still had no idea how the castle-ship was laid out, but somehow he managed to find a training room. 

It was already occupied. 

The pilot.

He fought like a half-Galra, ruthless and careless and desperate. No quarter given or taken. 

All half-bloods had something to prove. 

There were six training bots, then five, then four-

And then only the pilot, sweating and breathing hard, but still upright. Still undefeated. 

Ah, if only Lotor were in a position to begin recruiting new generals. The pilot was reckless, but he was fast, skilled. In a few years, when he was older, that recklessness would temper into determination. What he lost in speed, he’d gain in experience.

And the skill was already there. 

And then he turned, starting a little. It was late, Lotor thought, the rest of the inhabitants of the ship sleeping after the battle. The pilot had expected to be alone. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The pilot shrugged. 

“That was impressive,” Lotor said. “I’ve seen gladiator matches fought with less enthusiasm.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the pilot said, turning away slightly and wiping his brow.

“You fight like you have something to prove.”

The pilot whipped around, his expression stony. “You think you’re the first to tell me that?”

“Not if it’s true. But I didn’t come here to talk.”

“Be my guest, then,” the pilot said.

Lotor blocked the doorway. “Stay. You don’t want to talk either. Let’s fight. Defeating training bots must get old after a while.” It always had for him, but there was no one else for a long time. 

The pilot paused a second, then nodded. “As long as you don’t talk.”

“Fine.” He didn’t want to talk either. What words could he say that would be as satisfying as unraveling this puzzle of a boy? He would not let him get too close -he still heard the echoes of _For Narti_ in his ears -but this? There was no harm in this. 

The pilot - _Keith_ , he learned, after the first bout - was exactly the fighter Lotor had thought. He would have made a good general. The earnestness alone, the ease of reading into his general bluntness, was a gift in itself. 

They fought for vargas, and it was only when Keith put down his sword and backed away at the end of one bout and said, “Shiro will be up soon,” that Lotor realized he missed his generals. 

“The Champion?” Lotor asked. A lucky, if educated, guess. 

Keith nodded. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I didn’t sleep last night.”

Hopefully, this was a figurative statement. 

“He won’t hear it from me.” 

Keith smiled, and Lotor returned it. 


End file.
